Shapes of Spirits
by QuietDragon
Summary: Childhood memories and the sacrifices she had to make; the significance of butterflies, painted, paper, and real; and a realization. Konan-centric, one-shot with no obvious pairings.


**Author's Notes**: Please read and review. I'd love it if you mentioned what exactly you liked about it and/or quoted your favorite parts. These things interest me! I love reviews, they make me happy!

Constructive criticism is also welcome. Enjoy!

* * *

Each one moved independent of the other, the sound of folded-paper wings beating familiar to her ears.

She remembered her childhood spent leaving cups and pans under the pouring skies to catch the drops to drink from; playing in the bamboo; crawling into the tall grass of the countryside fresh after the rain.

Konan also remembered the butterflies.

* * *

Growing up, she had never seen _real_ butterflies, though Amegakure was home to plenty of dragonflies (which she very much liked) and mosquitoes (which she much less liked).

She probably wouldn't even know what one was if it weren't for the patterns on her mother's kimono; she could remember vividly, the soft colors, the hand-painted designs, even the feel of the silk in her small hands as she clung to her.

"Those flowers are really pretty," she said to her one day and was met with confusion.

"Flowers? Where?"

"On your kimono," came her answer.

Mother smiled in amusement, "thank you, but these aren't flowers, Konan! These are called butterflies!"

She nodded then, slowly, as she comprehended her reply, focusing on the clear lavander-colored shapes hand-painted onto white silk, which she had previously thought were some sort of four-petalled flowers.

She searched her mind for any word that resembled the one that her mother had just said, but came up empty-handed. "... What're butterflies?"

"Hmm..."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, they're bugs."

"_Bugs?_" she repeated in disgust. "Impossible. Something that pretty can't be a _bug_..."

"Well, not all bugs look gross. You like dragonflies, don't you?"

"Yeah, but..."

She lost the argument, so she simply folded her arms defiantly and sat on the floor, where her mother joined her. "They have beautiful wings that come in all sorts of colors and patterns..."

She imagined the strange bug with flower-petal multi-color wings, streaming rainbows behind it.

"They're usually anywhere where there are flowers."

"Oh," she felt disappointed. "So I won't ever see one..."

"Oh, don't say that. Maybe you will!"

She thought about it for a while, before speaking again, quietly breathing her words as she drew closer, "it's okay." She came closer, smiling and admiring the motifs on her mother's clothes again. "I think I like your butterflies best."

This earned her a smile and a pat on the head. "I'll tell you what-- when you're older, this kimono's yours."

That promise was not fulfilled; her mother died before she could see her daughter grow into a young woman and give it to her. Even though she held it, she could not wear it as it was permanently stained with the blood of her own mother, and no amount of washing could have ever removed it; she knew this because she had tried, several times.

She remembers one such time, blinking back tears because she had a job to finish, she washed the unstitched kimono in a river. She must not have done a very good job of hiding her tears, because she heard a boy's voice asking softly, shyly even, if she was alright.

She stiffened and swallowed, willing her voice not to crack, "I'm okay, Nagato, really..."

The scent of blood was making her sick and by now, she just wanted to get rid of the kimono, even if it was the most precious thing she still held.

"Oh, okay," the quiet reply came a little later.

She didn't speak after that, still trying to wash away as much blood as she could. The water became clouded so she couldn't see the cloth underneath until it was replaced, only to be met with the horrible brownish-black stains, hours spent washing it seemingly bringing about no change whatsoever; she just couldn't understand it.

"Oh, Konan, look!"

It was Nagato again; he hadn't left, he was still watching her and she was used to his silence, because Nagato was always quiet unless he was remembering things, at those times, he cried; sometimes, they cried together. But he didn't often talk about things, so when he spoke so excitedly, she knew it had to be something strange.

She looked up, glad for the distraction, "what is it, Na-"

She cut herself off.

Floating over their heads, its scales glowing with an ethereal light, then flitting from here to there, riding on a breeze in a carefree way as if it weren't aware of itself, like a most beautiful pure angel reclining, unaware of the dirty little humans huddled in the dirt watching it in awe.

"A... butterfly," she whispered its name so softly, so _reverently_, as if it were holy.

She didn't tear her eyes away, nor even blink, as if fearing that it would disappear in that very instant.

* * *

One of the paper butterflies broke away from the group to rest upon her finger. She observed it for a moment, and then let it fly back to the group. She controlled it, of course, she controlled all of them, but they were each unique and different, and each and every one of them had a name and history. Even Konan did not know them all; all she did was give them bodies. An angel imbuing named souls into unnamed bodies, was how she saw herself.

* * *

Nagato broke character once more and was the first to also break the silence that had settled on the two, the sound of the rushing river fading off into intangibility. "They used to tell us stories," his voice was soft again, shaking like it did whenever he remembered things. "That butterflies were the souls of the dead, trying to find their way."

Konan blinked. As she was taking in his words, the butterfly drew closer to her. At first, she shrunk away in fear of the strange otherworldly creature. But as if taken over by a will stronger than hers (or a forgotten emotion stronger than fear), she reached out, carefully at first, fingers reaching towards rippling lavender wings against clear white.

But she caught no fistful of silk, instead, a butterfly rested, lighter than anything, on her wrist.

It beat its wings softly and Konan was sure she was dreaming.

"Maybe she's someone you knew," Nagato said, sadly. "Can't be anyone I know..."

She was confused, still not fully convinced she wasn't dreaming, but overwhelmed with emotion, she smiled as the tears finally escaped and the butterfly took wing, flying away and they watched it until they could no longer see it.

Soon after, she sold the kimono for sustenance, as it was getting harder to survive day after day. She was no less attached to it than she was before, but her mother would not have wanted her to starve, waste away and die, clinging to her dead mother's old clothes of fine silk that she could bear to part with.

_For her sake..._

_Because she might return..._

_For the memories..._

Not that it sold for much, blood-stained kimono, silk or not, was not exactly highly sought after.

In retrospect, had she known they would be meeting Yahiko not long after she sold it, she could have not sold it, go a few more days without food, meet and be helped by Yahiko, and still have it today...

But whenever she thought this way, she had to remind herself that she made the decision that was best for the time she made it and it would have been selfish to deprive Nagato for the sake of an article of clothing.

They never saw another butterfly, not before nor since that incident. But one day, before they had met Yahiko, Nagato was starving and saying he was going to meet his parents and all kinds of things that weren't _right_. He was scaring Konan with what he said, but she had tried not to make it obvious, failing at that, but she was never good at hiding her emotions, so instead of simply hiding them, she tried to distract him.

Distractions were one thing she _was _good at and the other was...

She caught a glimpse of something grey and crumpled, told him she'd be right back (he responded with something about dying before she came back that she ignored), ran through the mud, and salvaged the dirty and forgotten piece of paper.

After she hurried back to the shade to get out of the rain, she tried to wipe off the mud that flecked the paper, but only smeared it around, to her annoyance.

She folded it to make a perfect square, then tore off the excess (it was somewhat damp, which made it easier to tear off, but not so cleanly).

Nagato watched her tiredly. "What're you doing...?"

"Just wait," she said, alternatively drying her hands on her tattered shirt and folding and unfolding the paper several times over.

Nagato watched her quietly.

"You know... what you said before..."

She continued to fold.

"About butterflies?"

He didn't answer.

"That... they were spirits of the dead..."

Smiling brightly, hair drenched with rain, drops of water tracking clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks, she presented him with a paper-white butterfly with wings patterned with brown spots and fingerprints, folded from a forgotten piece of paper.

He blinked and stared at in awe.

"Maybe your family left before you could see them, so you won't be sad... but since you wanted to see them so badly... I thought I should make you one, so you won't feel bad..."

He carefully accepted it, holding it as if it were as fragile as a real living butterfly, and smiled.

* * *

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a grey old butterfly; more pulp than paper, requiring more of her chakra than the others just to keep it suspended, and let it fly to join the others. It contrasted starkly against the crisp white of the cloud of butterflies, but then she flew it over to her partner who was sitting in his usual spot overlooking his village.

He was apprehensive at first, turning to glare at whatever had interrupted him, but instead of harshly questioning the intrusion, he only blinked and turned back to look at the village, not even brushing away the butterfly when it came to rest upon his shoulder.

She approached him quietly, averting her gaze when she stopped a few feet behind him.

"Why do you carry that old thing with you?"

_For his sake..._

_Because he might return..._

_For the memories..._

"I don't know," was what she said.

She raised a hand, beckoning the butterfly back to her palm, closing her fingers gently around it. Walking with quiet resolution to the edge, she closed her eyes, feeling his on her back.

Konan released the butterfly, allowing it be carried away by a passing breeze. _For his sake..._

A pause before he spoke, which she spent watching the butterfly until they could no longer see it, "you didn't have to do it, you know," he said, quietly, but icily.

"I know that…" she responded simply.

_It was for you... in the end, it was all for your sake... _"I know."


End file.
